The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2514 by Angharad Copyright© 2014 Angharad

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As I motored towards Chichester a trip which would only take about forty minutes plus whatever time it took the sat-nav to find the yacht club, I mused on meeting with Esmond Herbert again. I thought about the note he’d sent Tom about me, where he seemed to understand my situation more than he ever let on to me. I suppose he couldn’t say very much in case he was accused of encouraging me. That he knew of Tom’s daughter and his reference to it in that note tended to suggest he would have had no problem with it. I could have transitioned at Sussex—damn, I wasted about three or four years.

Oh bugger, looks like an accident up ahead—just what I needed. The traffic crawled to a standstill, if not stood to a crawlstill. I put on the handbrake and waited for signs of movement.

Of course I hadn’t wasted anytime really, because I’d never have got a first if I’d been dealing with the stress of transitioning and I might not have met Stella or Simon or even Tom; my life would have taken an entirely different path and despite a good degree I could have been stacking shelves in Tesco not sitting in a luxury car with a luxurious husband and lifestyle—ha ha, but it could be if I wanted it so. The truth was that I didn’t. I wasn’t a lady of the manor type and as a scientist and teacher, I felt justified in having a career, even if it had moved faster than I’d have planned or wanted. If the girls had been a bit older, it might have been easier—though they might have been just as vulnerable at university. My phone peeped and the traffic was stationary. I checked the text it was from Esmond to say he’d heard the traffic was bad and to get there when I could. I replied telling him I was stuck in the middle of it.

I wondered what Trish would do for a career. I was awaiting a response from the mathematics and physics department to see if they could assess her abilities and perhaps meet them with accelerated learning. She was bored with her peer age schooling, she was special and needed special stimuli or would become disruptive or depressed. She can understand basic calculus at nine, I couldn’t at nineteen which might say more about my earlier teachers, especially the maths ones.

I like to think I’m probably a bit above average intelligence and so should be able to cope with mathematics—not to A-level, I suspect I’d be bored—but to just below it, so I could cope with all the stuff I currently need Simon to advise me on. He did A-level maths.

A horn beeped behind me and the traffic moved about fifty yards and stopped again. I looked at the clock on the dashboard. It was a quarter to one, I was going to be late. I had the local news on the radio it mentioned something about a car driver killing a motorcyclist a few months ago when he realised he’d forgotten his shopping list and pulled into a layby on the A354 then attempted to do a U-turn—on a busy road, the one between Dorchester and Weymouth. He obviously didn’t see the motorcyclist.

We crept past the accident site, it looked like a car had gone under a lorry and three lanes filtered into one with the gawping of drivers slowing things down even more. I arrived at the yacht club at quarter past one and after checking my hair and makeup in the vanity mirror on the back of the sun-visor, I tidied both and gave myself a little squirt of Coco before pulling on my coat and walking as quickly as I could towards the clubhouse.

“Can I help you, madam?” asked a man just inside the door.

“I’m due to meet with Professor Herbert.”

He glanced at a list, “Could I have your name, madam?”

“I’m not sure which he has down there.”

“How many do you have, madam?”

I pretended to count on my fingers. His expression was priceless. “Two, my married name and my maiden name.”

“I see.”

“It could be Watts or Cameron.”

“I have Watts down here.”

“Fine, in which case I’m Professor Cathy Watts.”

“Professor—you look far too young to be a professor.”

“Perhaps I’m older than I look,” I’ve probably aged two years trying to get into this place.

“I doubt it, madam, please sign the visitor’s book and I’ll have someone lead you to his table.” At last. I signed it as Lady Catherine Cameron. He glanced at it and his demeanour changed a fraction. “Any relation to the Camerons who own High St Banks?”

“A distant relative to Henry—he lives in Hampstead, I’m closer to his son, he lives with me.”

“You’re his—um sister?”

“No that’s Lady Stella, my sister in law.”

“Sorry, you’ve lost me.”

“Simon is my husband.”

“Oh I see.” He blushed, “I’m a bit slow today.”

“Perhaps the colder weather.”

He shrugged but summoned a waiter to take me to Esmond’s table. “Please take Lady Cameron to Professor Herbert’s table.”

The younger man nodded and escorted me across the room to a table overlooking the harbour. Esmond stood up and taking my hand kissed it, “Cathy you become more beautiful by the day.”

“Esmond, you need to see your occulist.”

“I am mortally wounded, madam, you cast my compliments aside like autumn leaves.”

“I perhaps do, Sir, but your compliments have a far richer pedigree in the bovine manure department than autumn leaves.”

“I am undone,” he said and I glanced at his flies, “Not there,” he said bursting into laughter.

“Shall we forego the dramatics and eat, I’m starving?” I said hoping to sit down and see the famous menu and hopefully taste some of it if he ever stopped talking.

“But of course.”

I seated myself and was handed a menu. I refused a glass of wine and ordered a soda with lime instead. I began to scan the menu. There were no prices—who’s paying? I wondered. Did I have a card with me if we shared or I got the tab. I did, so that relieved one form of stress.

I opted for melon for my starter and venison pie for my main course. “Ah, good ol’ road kill special,” joked Esmond.

“I thought that was badger mince or flaked pheasant,” I responded and unfortunately he’d just taken a sip of his martini...